


amidst the pine and wreathed wolfsbane

by blackkat



Series: Mace Windu prompts [5]
Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Humor, M/M, Were-Creatures, Wizards, flirting through snark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:33:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22203400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: There’s a man lying face-down in his petunias, and Mace is not amused.
Relationships: CC-3636 | Wolffe/Mace Windu
Series: Mace Windu prompts [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1941517
Comments: 21
Kudos: 869
Collections: Fun/Humour/Crack in a Galaxy Far Far Away, Mace Windu Rare Pairs





	amidst the pine and wreathed wolfsbane

**Author's Note:**

> For a prompt on my Tumblr! I'm willing to accept pretty much anything Mace at the moment if you'd like to leave one yourself - I'm @blackkatmagic.

There’s a man lying face-down in his petunias, and Mace is not amused.

Well. Maybe he’s slightly amused, but Obi-Wan gave him those petunias and he’s always hated that particular shade of pink. Given that Obi-Wan is currently making Mace's entire existence into one oversized headache and flaunting all of the Council’s usual rules with polite glee, Mace feels little remorse for those petunias. Obi-Wan gave them to him in a very smug show of superiority, too, as if pink petunias would ever manage to win out against Mace's carefully cultivated fuck-you-purple blooms.

The man’s probably lucky he didn’t land in those ones when he apparently tripped over Mace's garden wall. They tend to bite.

Of course, that doesn’t explain how the man managed to squirrel past Mace's wards to jump the fence in the first place. Mace eyes him, then the wall, but he can't see any breaks in the carefully-woven wards. Mace's tower is also a good three miles off any regular paths, and five miles from the closest neighbor. He makes himself hard to find on purpose; about the only one who bothers is Ponds, who brings his groceries and sometimes sleeps in the reflecting pool.

Crossing his arms over his chest, Mace looms over the man in the flowerbed, doing a quick check for any signs of a malevolent magic; after all, it wouldn’t be the first time one of the area’s dark wizards tried to trick him into a curse. He can't sense anything, though. The man is just a man, half-naked and unconscious and drooling faintly on his crushed flowers.

Mace sighs through his nose. And he had such high hopes for it being a peaceful morning, too.

Taking a breath, he abandons his plans to tend to his mandrakes and instead retrieves a shirt that Ponds abandoned last time he was here, checking it for spiders and then stalking back to his unwelcome visitor. It’s possible that the man came for a spell, and if that’s the case, Mace has no patience for his presence. There’s a dark wizard setting up on the outskirts of the town, sending his monsters in to terrorize regular people; anyone who comes looking for a love potion or a cure for impotency right now is going to get translocated to a very unpleasant ravine on the opposite side of town.

Though that doesn’t quite explain why the intruder’s wearing nothing but a ragged, ripped, mud-stained pair of jeans.

Mace stands over him for a moment, considering, then sighs and reaches out, dropping the shirt right on top of his head.

The reaction is instant. With a jerk and a growl, the man twists and rolls up onto one knee, fist raised and ready to swing. Muscles tense, and Mace eyes the collection of scars on dark skin, then raises a brow.

“I don’t know how you got into my garden,” he says dryly, “or why you decided to sleep in a flowerbed, but at least put that on. Wander around half-naked on your own time.”

Dark eyes narrow, and the man stares at him for a long moment, then shifts back. without moving his gaze from Mace, he gropes around, finds the shirt, and pulls it over his head.

“Sorry about your flowers,” he says, and rises to his feet. Instantly, he grimaces, and staggers like he’s entirely stiff.

Mace catches him, mostly because the petunias have already suffered enough.

“Don’t be,” Mace says coolly. “Now I can tell the man who gave them to me that they died and feel no guilt.” He keeps his grip on the man’s elbow for a moment, to be sure he’ll stay upright, and then lets go. “Would you care to tell me why you're in my garden?”

The stranger’s eyes flicker from the tall stone wall to the squat kind-of-tower Mace only halfheartedly tries to pass off as a house. Wizards are supposed to live in towers. They're comfortable. Moreover, they're easily securable when Mace would rather not deal with guests. And the roof is perfect for solar panels.

He doesn’t appreciate the slow, judgmental arch of the man’s brow as he studies it. After all, _he_ chose to jump over Mace's wall without an invitation.

“Want to tell me where I am?” the stranger counters with a scowl, like having to ask is deeply offensive.

Mace snorts. “Drinking so much is bad for your liver,” he says blandly, and gets that scowl turned on him without hesitation. Allows, a moment later, “You're about five miles from the highway, outside of Coruscant.” Pauses, and then says, maybe a little pointed, “Town is east. That way.”

He helpfully indicates the direction the stranger can take himself in.

There's a moment of complete blankness on the man’s face, and then he huffs out an aggrieved breath and rubs his hands over his face. There’s a long scar across one eye, and the eye itself is milky white and blind. “Past Koon’s farm?”

It’s logical that he knows Plo Koon; Plo actually makes a point to be friendly, and he hires plenty of people on his farm. Mace inclines his head. “His property line is three miles south.” Wants to add _please head that way immediately_ , but that’s likely rude. Plo would be disappointed in him, and he tends to have a sixth sense for Mace chasing people away from his tower.

“Damn it,” the stranger says, and drops his hand, eyeing Mace. “I don’t suppose you're heading that way?”

“I don’t have a car,” Mace says blandly.

This time, the judgement on the man’s face is much more obvious. “You don’t have a car. In the middle of a forest. In the _country_.”

Mace raises a brow at him, daring him to comment further. “I like to walk,” he says.

“Phone?” the stranger tries, and Mace snorts. If he had a phone, people would call him, and that would rather defeat the purpose of making himself all but unreachable.

“Right.” The man eyes him up and down, then scowls. “All right. Thanks for the shirt. And sorry about your flowers.”

“You're lucky you didn’t land in the wolfsbane,” Mace tells him. “Be grateful it was _just_ my petunias.”

The man freezes, suddenly stiff. “Your _what_ ,” he says, almost a growl.

Mace pauses, caught off guard, and eyes the man warily. “My monkshood,” he says, and tips a hand at the bed beneath the far wall—the wall in the direction of Plo’s farm, and generally the one people approach first. The man’s very lucky he didn’t climb over it in whatever drunken stupor he was in last night. Not that monkshood would kill him instantly, but lying facedown in it all night could have been bad.

“Isn't that poisonous,” the stranger growls. It has more in common with an accusation than a question.

Mace gives him his flattest look. “Yes. It’s always nice to have some on hand for poisoning the apples I hand out to princesses.”

With an inaudible grumble, the man looks away, rolls his shoulders, and steps back. Pauses, then, and frowns. It looks like he does that a lot. “You—do you want me to take a message to anyone?”

“If I wanted to talk to people, I’d have a phone,” Mace says dryly. “But thank you for the offer.” He turns away, and after a moment of contemplation he retrieves the water bottle he’d planned to use for himself. It’s been in the fridge all night, so it’s decently cold, and Mace has had enough hangovers—usually Obi-Wan or Qui-Gon’s fault—to know exactly how the man’s head is probably feeling without water right now.

“Here,” he says, and shoves it into the stranger’s hands. “The gate swings out.”

The man fumbles slightly, but catches the bottle, and eyes it like he’s sure it’s full of poison. “I'm not going to—”

“It’s cucumber water,” Mace says, unimpressed. “Leave the bottle with Plo if you don’t want it.” Then, pointedly, he turns away and picks up his pruning shears.

“Thanks?” the man says, confused, but when Mace shoots him a narrow, expectant look he huffs, turns, and heads for the gate, closing it behind him with just a little more force than is strictly necessary.

Mace doesn’t mind. He still has time to prune back the lilac by the pool, then see to the mandrakes and recheck his wards. The full moon last night must have thrown them out of alignment; that’s the only explanation for how someone was able to get in.

“Hey, Wolffe!” Cody calls, with the easy glee that means Wolffe is about to regret getting out of bed this morning. “That was quite the run last night. Eat anything cute?”

Wolffe rolls his eyes, shoving a crate of tomatoes further back into the bed of Plo's rusty old truck. “I left it in your bed,” he retorts. “Hope you weren’t expecting clean sheets.”

Rex snickers, thumping his shoulder into Cody's as he passes. “Come on, Cody,” he says. “Leave the lone Wolffe alone.”

Wolffe closes his eyes as they chortle together and tells himself that murdering them won't be worth it. Plo will look _sad_. Wolffe will have to move the bodies. It’s more trouble than it’s worth.

If they howl at him one more time, though, Wolffe is going to put laxatives in their dinner and then lock the bathrooms from the inside.

“I think it’s quite nice that Wolffe’s animal skin is so representative of him,” Plo says serenely, and behind him a line of baskets bobbles along like ducklings. More than happy to let the wizard do the work, Wolffe ducks to the side and wipes the sweat off his face with a rag, then flings it at Cody.

“Hey!” Cody protests.

“Shut it, dog-breath,” Wolffe says pointedly, and catches it when he throws it back. His depth perception isn't _that_ bad.

Plo makes a sound of quiet amusement, waving one hand to keep the baskets loading themselves. “You were safe last night?” he asks with some concern, looking Wolffe over. “You got back later than normal, Wolffe.”

Wolffe grimaces. “I tried to take a run through the woods,” he says, and doesn’t add _I got distracted by a deer_ because Cody is still within earshot and will never let him live it down. He already doesn’t let the werewolf-named-Wolffe thing go, _ever_ , and Wolffe is about ready to strangle him for it. “Wound up…somewhere else.”

Admitting that his wolf jumped some weird unfriendly hippie’s gate and decided to pass out in his flowerbeds seems even worse than admitting to the deer thing.

“Ah,” Plo says, with an air of understanding. “Is that why you came back smelling like Mace's wards? You should keep your distance from them, they can be quite unfriendly.”

“ _Mace_?” Wolffe can feel his brows knitting. “You mean he’s a wizard?” He’d kind of thought the guy was a serial killer, frankly.

Plo smiles, quietly amused. “I thought the tower made it obvious. But yes, Mace Windu and I went to school together.”

“But…” Wolffe trails off, looking at Plo. Mace had _solar panels_ on his tower. He also looked like he regularly ate small children for breakfast, not that Wolffe is probably one to talk. He generally thinks of wizards in terms of Plo, who’s friendly and wise and close to the earth in a farmer’s intuition sort of way. He’s not a weird hermit in the woods with no car, no phone, and a garden full of wolfsbane.

Plo spreads his hands. “We do what we can to adapt to these times,” he says. “Mace and I chose different paths, but we’re still quite close.”

Wolffe eyes him, disbelieving.

With a soft sigh, Plo concedes. “We are as close as we can be, given out proclivities,” he allows. “But Mace is a dear friend.”

Apparently, Wolffe’s animal side thinks he’s _interesting_ , too. He grimaces, grabbing a crate that’s too heavy to make the rise up to the truck and heaves it in. “He’s rude,” he mutters.

“Quite opinionated,” Plo agrees serenely. “Cody, Rex, would you pack the tables, please? The market starts in an hour, and I’d like to get there a little early.”

“Sure.” Rex offers a half-assed salute and wanders towards the shed, pulling Cody with him.

Plo watches them go for a moment, then tips his head faintly and says, “I’m grateful you and your cousins cared to come stay here. Having more people around is good.”

“Even if it means your farm’s overrun with animals?” Wolffe mutters. He keeps to the woods, because it’s habit, but he knows most of his brothers and cousins tend to change in familiar surroundings.

Plo chuckles. “Part of the fun,” he says, and there’s a spark of humor in his eyes. “Watching Obi-Wan walk in on Rex was certainly entertaining.”

Wolffe snorts, because it sure as hell was. Seeing the forever-composed Obi-Wan get treed by an overly-friendly tiger was worth all the angsting from Rex that’s followed about Obi-Wan possibly being scared of him.

Wolffe _refuses_ to get involved in any of the love lives of those around him, for the sake of his own sanity, but he’s pretty sure Obi-Wan is mostly just avoiding Rex now because he thinks he’s hot. Not that Wolffe will ever tell Rex as much. He’ll figure it out eventually. Or, more likely, _Cody_ will figure it out and make Rex's life hell until things work themselves out.

“Wolffe,” Plo says softly, and when Wolffe glances up with a frown, the wizard is watching him, hands folded. “Be careful straying too close to Mace's tower. He’s been attacked before.”

“Because of his bright and charming personality?” Wolffe asks dryly.

Plo chuckles. “Mace is a kind man, though he hates to admit it,” he says. “But I would hate for you to get caught in the crossfire if someone were to take a shot at him.”

“I’ll stay clear,” Wolffe promises, which is true enough. He doesn’t have any plans to go back to the tower, because Mace was confusing. Rude, but—

Maybe he can see why Plo would call him kind. Not that he’d admit as much.

The day after the full moon, Mace staggers out of his house, the backlash of a broken curse still shrieking through his skull, and promptly trips over a body.

It’s going to be that kind of morning, it seems.

It is, in fact, a _familiar_ body that’s pretty much sprawled over his doorstep, though it’s lacking even what clothes were present last time. Instead of shredded jeans, there are just a few scraps of denim, and Mace, flat on the ground on his back, sighs _deeply_.

He’s a decent person. He doesn’t deserve this.

Pulling himself upright takes more effort than it would have before Sidious tried to kill him through an assassin in the form of his mind-controlled former apprentice. Depa seemed fine when he saw her off in the early hours and then promptly collapsed into bed to sleep off the recoil, but Mace is still entirely ready to burn Sidious’s tower to the ground, regardless of where it is. He’s aching, and frustrated, and prepared for another attempt because Sidious never makes just _one_ , and this intruder who keeps wandering through his wards is one headache too many to deal with.

“Get up,” he says brusquely, shaking the man’s shoulder. There’s that startled wrench again, the man rolling upright like he’s about to find himself in a fight, but Mace just snorts softly and steps past him, right back into his house. He needs coffee if either one of them is going to survive this encounter.

“Well?” he asks pointedly, when the man just stares at him, and turns to fill the kettle.

Looking vaguely bemused, the man rolls upright with visible stiffness, then steps in, closing the door behind him. He doesn’t seem to have a problem crossing Mace's threshold, but then, he didn’t have a problem with the wards, either.

“I assume you didn’t move your tower?” he asks Mace warily.

“No,” Mace says, dry. “However, I did specifically activate the wards that would have _eaten_ any intruders. Since you're not currently a mummified husk on the property line, I'm assuming they failed.”

The stranger blanches faintly. “You _what_?”

Mace takes one glance at his face and allows himself a faint sigh. “Not for you specifically,” he says, and retrieves his French press. “Care to tell me how you got in this time?”

There's a moment of cautious silence, and then the man huffs in what sounds like frustration. “If I knew, I would,” he says. When Mace turns to level a suspicious look at him, his expression twists ruefully. “Full moon,” he explains. “I don’t remember a damned thing.”

“Shapeshifter,” Mace concludes, and when the stranger nods, he frowns faintly. His wards should be strong enough to make any normal shapeshifter turn tail at the edge of his property. He certainly hasn’t had trouble with any others.

Of course, now there’s the added complication of the stranger _trying_ to get in. if Mace makes the wards violent, they’ll hurt him, and since he hasn’t proved himself to be an enemy yet, Mace would rather avoid that.

His head throbs, and Mace strangles a sigh. Something for later contemplation, then.

When the water boils, he pours it over the coffee grounds, gives it a stir, and turns to get cups. “Sugar?” he asks. “Cream?”

The man stares at him like this is the most surreal conversation he’s ever had. Mace would sympathize, but he has regular conversations with Yoda, and nothing can compare to that. “Sure,” he finally says. “Both. Please.”

Mace prepares the cups, then takes a seat across the kitchen table. When he waves his hand, the other chair pulls itself out invitingly. “Mace,” he says, and doesn’t add his title, because he’s not outright braindead, even if his skull got more than a little rattled last night. If this man _does_ belong to Sidious, Mace isn't going to make things easy for him.

There's a suspicious pause as the man hovers in the doorway. When Mace raises a brow at him, though, he snorts, taking the indicated chair and pulling the mug towards him. “Wolffe,” he returns, then takes a sip. The relief that crosses his face is one Mace knows at a bone-deep level, and he makes a quiet sound of amusement, leaning back in his seat and finally letting some of his muscles unknot a little. His head aches, and his eyes feel gritty, but there’s tension easing out of his spine. The hush is pleasant, and Wolffe doesn’t seem inclined to break it either, concentrating on his coffee. He hasn’t seemed to notice yet that he’s practically naked, or doesn’t care if he has.

Mace closes his eyes, breathes out. He needs to check on Depa, and then find out what Sidious’s next play will be. Needs to talk to Qui-Gon and tell him to watch his apprentice, because Anakin has a penchant for overreaction, and Obi-Wan is probably the next one Sidious will go after. Needs to message Yoda, if he can get a summons through the swamp he’s chosen to bury himself in, and see if Luminara will stay with Depa for a while, since she’s probably not going to have a good reaction to seeing Mace alone right now. But—

Just for now. Just a few minutes of silence.

“Er,” Wolffe starts, and shifts faintly. “Can I borrow some pants?”

Mace snorts, and when he opens his eyes, he might be smiling faintly. “What a shame. I liked the view,” he says, dust-dry, but rises to his feet. He probably has a pair of sweatpants that will fit.

Wolffe is faintly red as he takes another gulp of coffee. “It’s fifty bucks if you want the show,” he retorts, and Mace raises both brows.

“You take cash?” he asks, and Wolffe rolls his eyes so hard he probably strains something.

“ _Pants_ ,” he says pointedly, and Mace inclines his head gravely and goes to find the most obnoxious pair he owns.

Rex takes one look at him and _howls_ with laughter.

“Fuck off,” Wolffe snaps, stalking into the bunkhouse that Plo keeps for farmhands.

“ _Swirls_ ,” Rex wheezes, hanging on to the edge of the fridge to stay upright.

Wolffe eyes the butcher knives on the kitchen counter, temptingly close. Before he can go for one, though, Cody takes two steps into the room and stops dead, damp towel sliding off his shoulders to land with a soft plop at his feet.

“ _Wolffe_?” he demands, strangled, and doesn’t seem to know where to look first. “Are those _yoga pants_?”

Wolffe draws himself up as straight as his tattered dignity will allow, folding his arms over his chest. He’s got more muscle than Cody, at least, so there’s that. “It was this or walk home naked,” he growls. “I wasn’t about to get arrested for public indecency.”

“Vod, I don’t know how to break it to you, but I think avoiding those pants is worth some jail time,” Cody says, and presses a hand over his eyes like he can't bear to look at them anymore. “Where did you even _find_ that shade of purple?”

“They're a lone,” Wolffe bites out, and stalks past Cody and up the stairs. Both of his cousins should be grateful he doesn’t go for a knife and just start swinging.

Probably worst of all is the fact that Plo _recognized them_. He’d taken one look at Wolffe slinking out of the woods and beamed.

 _Ah, Obi-Wan’s birthday gift to Mace. I'm glad he’s getting some use out of them_.

Wolffe is _not_ going to crawl under his bed and never come out again, no matter how tempting the thought is. The pants are _tight_ , and he’d been utterly horrified when Mace produced them. Not horrified enough to call the man on it, though. _Quite_. But—

It was an undignified walk back to the farm, and Wolffe is tempted to burn the damn things in retribution and tell Mace they ripped. He probably doesn’t wear them. How can he? They're tight on _Wolffe_ , who’s a good hand shorter.

Then, of course, Wolffe’s treacherous brain skips sideways into imagining just what exactly Mace looks like wearing them. Purple yoga pants with silver stars and gold moons isn't a look that _anyone_ can pull off well, but—

Wolffe pictures it. And then he misses the turn for his room and walks straight into the fucking wall, because this day is _wonderful_.

The full moon is heavy and bright over the forest, and there’s something huge and deadly prowling the edges of the wall.

Mace hears it through the open window of his bedroom, heavy steps and rasping breath, and stills his pen. Lifts his head, then sighs and picks up the candle sitting on the corner of his desk. It comes to life with a flicker of purple flame, casting strange shadows as Mace makes his way down the stairs and out into the silver-lit darkness. The jasmine is blooming, and he can see the ripple of the dark fur in the pool that means Ponds is sleeping there in otter form. Everything is quiet, and there’s a clean, green crispness to the air that only happens at night.

Quiet in his bare feet, Mace crosses the yard, minding the curling patches of lemon balm and feverfew. The wrought iron of the gate is stark in the moonlight, black and looming, sparked with the violet of Mace's power. When he lays a hand on the lock, it turns easily, clicks open, and Mace swings the gate inward.

The massive grey wolf waiting outside watches him, ears pricked, one good eye sharp. Mace holds his gaze for a long moment, then sighs and steps back, pulling the gate with him.

“If you're just going to jump the wall and crush more of my plants, you might as well come in now,” he tells the wolf. Tells _Wolffe._ “I want those pants back, too.”

Wolffe huffs, but pads past Mace and into the garden. Waits, patient, as Mace relocks the gate, and then follows him back into the tower as if he’s done it a thousand times before. Mace doesn’t argue, just gives Wolffe room to climb the stairs and then shifts a pile of paperwork off the bed. Without hesitation, Wolffe jumps up onto the mattress, making it dip dangerously, and lies down with a contented sound.

“If you drool on my pillow, I'm going to return you to Plo as a wolfskin rug,” Mace warns, and the wolf growls in offense. Unimpressed, Mace raises a brow right back, then takes a seat at his desk again, picking up his pen. “I have work to do. If you need to go out, open the door yourself,” he tells Wolffe, and Wolffe rolls his eyes at him. Mace gives him a narrow look in response, then turns back to his work.

Behind him, the sound of the wolf’s breathing is soft, steady. Wolffe lies there for a long while, long enough for Mace to finish all of his reports to Yoda, and then the mattress creaks again. Heavy paws thump against the carpet, and a moment later a huge, furry head settles on the arm of Mace's chair.

“No,” Mace says flatly. “I am _working_.”

Another pointed eyeroll, and Wolffe sets his teeth in the hem of Mace's shirt and tugs.

For a long moment, it’s a silent battle of wills. Mace glares, and Wolffe stares back, implacable.

Finally, annoyed, Mace sighs. “You're not going to stop bothering me,” he says, not a question.

Wolffe’s sharp bark is far closer to a sardonic _now you're getting it_ than it has any right to be. Mace snorts, and tells him, “I should have planted wolfsbane all around the wall.”

Still, he stands up, because it’s better than spending all night getting harassed by a wolf the size of a pony, and Wolffe’s already proved he’s remarkably impervious to Mace's magic. It makes Wolffe let go of his shirt, too, and when Mace settles on the edge of his bed to strip his sweater off, Wolffe leaps up on the other side and settles there, apparently content.

“I don’t need you to babysit me,” he tells Wolffe. “If Plo put you up to this—”

Wolffe groans, pointed, and tosses a paw over his nose, like Mace is a headache. Mace contemplates turning him into a frog, just for that, but—

It’s late. The moon is probably going to set soon, and sleep isn't an entirely terrible idea. Mace would prefer not having to share his bed with a wolf, but—

He can see Wolffe in its eyes, so clear it’s undeniable, and he sighs, sliding under the covers.

“Don’t snore,” he tells Wolffe, who snorts, unconcerned by the implied threat. Mace frowns at him, but lies down and closes his eyes, and—

Well. It’s not an unpleasant thing, being able to hear another soul in the darkness.

Wolffe wakes with an arm slung over a warm body, his nose buried in the nape of someone’s neck, but there’s none of the bewilderment of the last few months, none of the confusion. Maybe part of that is Mace's scent, warm earth and growing things and ozone, violet-edged. Maybe part of it is the fact that he can remember the wolf’s path last night, through the dark to the tower like a beacon drew him there. Or—

Maybe it’s the fact that Mace's fingers are twisted through his own, a tight, grounding grip.

“No yoga pants,” he says against dark skin, and Mace makes a low, rumbling sound of amusement that does inappropriate things to Wolffe's stomach. And possibly lower things. 

“You’d rather go naked?” he asks, and Wolffe snorts.

“I don’t know,” he says. “Is there something in it for me?”

“No more yoga pants?” Mace suggests, dry. When Wolffe kicks his ankle lightly, he huffs, and offers, “Coffee. Breakfast. Not getting turned into a toad.”

“We’ll work on it,” Wolffe decides, and closes his eyes again. He tightens his grip, and Mace just hums, soft and easy. 

Working on it sounds good. Wolffe can live with that. 


End file.
